The Last Time I Ate French Toast

The sun rose high over Beaver Canyon later than usual that day and set like a whore with moonglow riding tight between the cheeks of her ass.

Back in a day and age when the weaker sex chose not to shave their twats a happier time was had amongst all those generous souls who cared enough to share a lick or two down there in the valley of degenerate pleasures and eventual nausea.

 

Past memories of various Catholic Priests and Nuns contaminate the brain like poisonous snakes nesting in the oriface of a monsters soul bleeding and dripping like 10 pounds of processed beef.

We were slated to serve holy mass that day and arrived at a specified location at the time required by the laws dictating that certain church in Ohio, 1971.

The doors to the holy place remained locked so we waited until the obvious became simple reality.

 

We crossed around back and over the wooden fence to see what was up.

Knock! Knock! (Side door). Nothing.

Peek through sliding glass door we witnessed an example of Gods graceful calling as the bastard priest lay flat on his face chewing the expensive shag rug he supposedly could not afford.

 

With no one in sight at such an early hour we waited. As we waited we wondered and were happy that today our obligation would not be of the nature descibed by the church but to ourselves.

The day was dominated by news of the priests death. We were "men of the hour" questioned by all who passed. The mordid curiousity of nuns ran amok like an overflowing toilet full of shit.

The first to arrive screamed like a loon on fire when told of the horizonal monstrosity on the living room floor in the little house behind the school and church.

It was a happy occasion for most of the kids for the bastard held the board of pleasure and used it often on the soft asses of children like the common God fearing degenerate he truly was.

Heaven or Hell?

 

I would assume Hell opened it's glorious hole and welcome the sainted father to join the caravan of busted souls awaiting the graceful kiss of Lucifer himself.

The police arrived as did the emergency squad and body bagged the body soon thereafter. We were not permitted to witness the removal. By that time the pair of us had went on to bigger and better pleasures and fielded questions from all interested seekers of the first hand account.

 

As the inhabitants of purgatory scrutinized their latest hole we went about our day indulging in such childish pleasures as knuckle sandwiches and a desciptive detailed account of finding Father Sabry flat on his face in the little cottage around back.

Never again will that fat, bald, demented bastard find perverse enjoyment in whipping children with the flat board of wood hung on a nail throgh a hole off to the right directly inside the door.

Most were terrified by the sight of the horrible tool supposedly used to straighten our mis-alligned pattern of disruptive behavior. In reality it strengthened our resolve and hardened our determination to show anything but respect towards the fat perverted priest who so enjoyed the pleasures of assulting children who refused to abide by his godly influence.

Several seemed to enjoy the pain. Those I would assume these many years later evolved into wife beaters or perhaps even serial killers.

I remember reading in the local paper several years ago that Mullins did in fact kill his wife then himself utilizing a cheap shotgun bought perhaps at either K-Mart or Wal-Mart.

 

Although in all honesty I should mention the fact that Mullins did not actually attend the Catholic gradeschool of my youthful nightmares. I met this particuliar mis-proportioned and disturbed teen the year after I was booted out of the place and continued studies at public schooling.

He was a connoisseur of arosol sprays and glues and was once caught masturbating while peeking through a hole into the girls locker room.

With all signs of full catastophe present the glassy eyed half hillbilly lug of a dissillusioned midwestern youth seemed to disapear only to resurface the next school year after having found his own personal sexuality.

He began doing queer things to other males such as grabbing them from behind and humping them while holding tight.

The author of this sordid and disturbing tale of early 70's American youth would like to state for the record of public perversion the fact that I (the author) was somewhat large for his age so did not suffer the humiliation of feined homosexual intercourse at the hands of the future wife killer/suicide case Mullins.

 

Several years later I began consuming potatoes in large quantities as a result of an intestinal infection restricting digestion of any other food product.

I soon began work on a cookbook devoted entirely to recipies utilizing the wonderful underground growth.

"1001 Ways To Mash Your Potato" became an instant best seller in the former Soviet Union and was translated from the English language by Dr Ludmard Ludmerding Phd who completed studies at the University of Bainbridge (Upstate Tennessee) in 1963.

Soon I was making the talk show scene in Lenengrad and Moscow. As a result of my public exposure on Russian radio I got more sex in three weeks than a entire lifetime in Kentucky and Ohio combined!

 

The success of "1001 Ways To Mash Your Potato" continued in paperback form with the first edition hardcover skyrocketing in value on the collectors market. Yet contrary to popular bullshit my new found wealth did not translate into total and true happiness for the spector of the dead priest lingered in my mind and a strange form of psychosis began to set like cement within the cells of my questionable brain.

Back in the United States I remained an unknown. My own country disregarding the accomplishment I so proudly held within my deeply darkened heart yet in Moscow the offers of interviews continued to flood my rural Tennessee mailbox.

I began to recieve polaroid spread shots from Russian maidens offering their attention in full blown form (no pun intended).

Soon I found myself expecting the arrival by cargo ship the mysterious and psychotic Helga Selinski who within a matter of several months proved not only to be my biggest mistake but greatest nightmare as well.

 

The night she arrived went sleepless and sweat drenched. Helga proved to be the Russian equivilent of a 8 Pound Orick.

The first few weeks went smoothly with Helga making herself familier with the various contraptions associated with American life. The microwave oven was a source of total amusement and her amazement continued with the lawnmower and television remote.

To say she was a piece of ass would be the understatement of the century. Helga was THE piece of ass. Soon the local tail became extremely envious of whom they considered an outsider coming to town and claiming as her own the most eligible and successful man in rural Tennessee.

 

After mastering the direct TV remote control Helga soon developed a pathological obsession with episodes of "Mr Ed" and started singing the theme song in her native tongue relentlessly and without mercy.

The obvious soon became a recognized reality. Helga was too much potato for one fork and something needed to be done quickly before I lost what little remained of my ability to reason in a functional abstract non violent way!

 

When I regained conciousness I was hard pressed to remember a damn thing other than a horse is a horse of course. And no one can talk to a horse of course.

 

I was relieved to realize the entire Helga thing was just another bad dream brought about by too many real life situations like the slimy ring of shit around the inner rim of an unclean toilet flushed but not forgotten.

 

After this latest episode I became fearful of falling asleep again. Eventually I dropped silently and without incident into a dazed and disillusioned state of dead delirium once again experiencing a fitful night of strange noctural ideas and nightmarish sexual encounters with narration by Orson Welles and musical score supplied by Henry Mancini.

 

Some very interesting stuff, Curious Mutation, very odd indeed. I really like the part about the author & the very beginning; the middle definately falls into the odd......but well written.

 

wow man, that was fucked up. really fucked up...that's why i like it.

it was really good man. you should write a book or something, all like this. i'd fucking buy that, for sure.